On the road to Longago
Lies a layby known as Now
We never find much time to rest
We rarely stop there anyhow
On the road to Oncetherewas
Lies an inn that’s known as Here
Grass there seldom seems as green
As other pastures front and rear
On the road to Inthepast
Lies the restaurant Today
Where the fare and company
Don’t encourage us to stay
On the road to Gonetoosoon
By the stream of Nonetoosure
Lies the hamlet of Undone
Hard to find and quite secure
On the road to Wasthatit
By the lake of Wishwehad
The book of our life writes itself
And henceforth remains unread
